Seven Maids
by ink and ashes
Summary: Challenge: Drunk!Tarrant. One shot.


**S E V E N . M A I D S**

_I met a magic man_

_Who had a daughter_

_She learned her lessons well_

_But still, I taught her_

What an odd sensation.

His body knew what to do… all of its own accord, no less. How intriguing, that. Perhaps he should assist it, as it seemed to be having quite the rough time with straightening. Standing could not have been this hard before; how had he managed to do so for so many years with nary a thought? It did not help, of course, that his legs were hopelessly tangled in the arms of his waistcoat—donned _especially_ for that occasion… whatever said occasion may have been, for that required _remembering_ and his throbbing skull was not yet ready for such a feat—and his shoes were nowhere to be found. He opened a single bleary eye and tried to assist his appendages in their daunting task of _getting up_. He never remembered being quite so heavy before.

In his half-delirium, he managed to find the crux of his problem; at some point of some unthinkable time at some unknown juncture in the blank area that must have been the previous evening, he had fallen asleep—_passed out_ might be the proper term for someone in his position—beneath a large wooden barrel. A barrel of ale, by the dank odor that rudely intruded upon his flailing senses. A barrel of ale that was _leaking._

"Oh, _damnation!_" he growled in exasperation, although it did not sound a bit like what it _should_ have.

He was flailing again, but not in his mind. His arms pushed at the damned, offensive barrel as his torso bucked angrily from the weight. Some effort was lost in the struggle but he finally managed to upheave the wooden monster and inhaled much needed, glorious _air_. How had he managed to _sleep_ with that infernal contraption laying upon him so? What an oddity. Never mind, it was high time he got up and about and… he stumbled and fell, not sure when the floor had gotten quite so… _there_.

Grasping the edge of a piece of shelving, Tarrant Hightopp, royal hatter to the benevolent White Queen, managed to not-so-gracefully pull himself onto his unsteady feet. He fell ingloriously once more due to the fact that his legs were still wrapped up within his once-impeccable white coat, which he fumbled with for a few frustrated moments before finally flinging the problematic article aside. For the third time, he attempted this impossibility of standing. A few curses and a growl preceded the eventual completion of the monumentous event; he dusted off his black trousers and plain white button-down as best he could, though the fabric would undoubtedly never recover from the trauma. What a shame. Even as unfocused and inexplicably off-kilter as he felt, the material felt exquisitely fine beneath his calloused fingertips.

Tarrant stole a moment to rub the glue from his eyes, for there could be no other reason as to why they desired nothing more than to close and lull him back into the deception of slumber. Blinking away the drowsiness, he glanced about his rather dark surroundings with a hint of trepidation… and discovered wine racks covering every wall, bottles of unknown vintage lining the shelves unassumingly. Barrels, much like the one that so tortured his now-bruised ribs, were neatly stacked in a pile mere inches from his makeshift bedding—a few glass bottles he must have emptied… and then rolled into a bundle. One such bottle appeared to still have most of its contents, nestled safely by the stack of ale. The cap was horribly askew. Without another thought, he bent to retrieve it before realizing the stupidity of such a jerky motion.

The Queen's cellar doubled and blurred in his vision, causing Tarrant to stumble. He righted himself, however, before he fell over once more.

He brought the bottle up with him.

_She followed willingly—_

_As lamb to slaughter_

_We shared forbidden fruit_

_And things I brought her_

No use in wasting a perfectly good year… not that he knew, for the label had been cleaned off. A small sip, just for authentication? The honeyed fragrance chased away the nightmare of old alcohol and stale morning when he brought the rim of the cool glass to his lips, the ruby red wine rolling over his thick, swollen tongue in languorous delight. Ah, a younger year with a bit of sourness to dampen the natural sweetness of the berry, but the kick was welcome; he found that the aged, fruited beverage nicely dulled the hammer and chisel that angrily chipped away at his cerebrum, so he took a few healthy and hearty gulps. And then a few more, just for the taste.

Twisting the aluminum cap back onto the bottle, he took another survey of the room which, thankfully, revealed a narrow case of stairs. He had to squint to make out the shadowy contours, but the tiny pinpricks of light that slipped beneath the closed doorway at the top was enough to confirm his suspicions; with legs grown clumsy and useless, Tarrant made his weak and wobbly way towards that taunting light source… where his balance teeter-tottered dangerously for a few seconds. He gripped the banister with the desperation of a mad man, crying out in alarm when he felt his hands slip. Each step was a test to his merit and he would be _damned_ if a few planks of wood would outwit him. When he pulled himself to the top, he nearly collapsed from the exertion, catching himself just in time. Unfortunately, he pushed against the door with every ounce behind his unsteady build, completely forgetting about the knob that would have happily given him entrance had he had the mind to simply employ the convenient device. What an ingenious little trinket, that.

As it stood, Tarrant came crashing onto the cool marble floors, barely able to hold the bottle aloft—he did, but the rest of his body could not be counted as fortunate.

A garble of sounds pushed past his chapped lips in what could have been interpreted as an oath… or a snore. Whatever the case may have been, he groggily climbed back onto his heel, using the sturdy wall as support. His ears were ringing and he chucked back another mouthful of wine, wincing at the jarring jerking motion. "Bl'eck derm," he belched at the bottle, a gross perversion of the English term _better_. Indeed, the more he drank the better his headache behaved; who would have guessed that the cure for a hangover was _more_ drink? What a delightful discovery! It would not do to make a habit of this, but perhaps… in light of the unique circumstances… and the Jabberwocky flapping around his poor head, screeching and roaring like an _arse_, he would be excused of indulging. Just a bit.

The wall seemed reliable enough to him, one hand sliding across the immaculate surface, Tarrant zig-zagged down the quiet hallway, his other hand gripping his '_medicine_' limply. He barely traveled a meter when a melodic giggle wafted through the cavernous corridor with the listlessness of a butterfly. Another voice rumbled lazily behind it, the duet of laughter scrapping at the sensitive drums of his ears. Who could possibly be up at this hour?

"…do believe everything went splendiforously well last evening. Everyone seemed to enjoy themselves…" The dainty visage of Lady Mirana, exuberant—and much too bright to look at, sadly—in her gleaming ivory gown, wound the corner before him, the head of the Evaporating Cat strolling idly above her shoulder. "…and I am sure they will feel better by this afternoon." The two shared a glance and erupted with giggles. "I knew I should have waited to raid the cellar, but I did not think it would turn out like this; can you believe it, Chessur?" The Queen was radiant with mischief, covering her upturned mouth with the back of her hand.

"I _can_, Your Majesty," the Cheshire Cat purred, his body fading in and out of tangibility. A casual display of ability from this self-assured feline. "It has been far too long since we had cause to celebrate."

That little reminder sobered the Queen. After a moment of silence, she cast her dark eyes before them and spotted the slip-and-sliding hatter, the twinkle of mirth returning tenfold. "Oh my! Where _have_ you been, Tarrant?" The normally empathetic and charismatic sovereign dissolved into rhythmic _hee-hee-hee_'s and helpless_ ha-ha-ha_'s that sparked the fierce urge to chuck a shoe at her… had he remembered where those particular little creatures had disappeared to. The disgruntled part of Tarrant wanted to ignore her, but knew better than to display such blatant rudeness; friend or no, he did not want to create a rift in their relationship… regardless of how much he raged with the urge to rebel. To snap. To _lash_ out at someone.

She had picked a horrible time to grace him with her frustrating beauty. "Shella," he grumbled, hating how unbelievably dry his throat felt.

His noticeable slur sent the Queen into a fit of hysteria. "You p… you poor _dear_," she gasped, her slender arm clutching her middle as if it would tear apart. Doubled-over, her waterfall of pale hair covered the sheer amusement at his expense. How very _thoughtful_. "If… if you woul-_haa_!" That was _not_ very dignified. After a moment, the Lady finally pulled herself together and faced the very annoyed Hightopp, tears still shining in her eyes. "If you would _like_, I will have a bath drawn for you. _In your quarters_." A snort. It was _not that damnably funny!_ "But may I inquire; did you break anything down there?"

He followed her eyes and spied the still-dripping purple-blue stain upon the stomach of his shirt that wrapped around the back of his shoulder blades and the front of his trousers. He had completely forgotten about that. He tried to explain as best as he could. "…_Yessssh-oi-dih_." His lisp distorted any semblance of sobriety he may have falsified.

Mirana nodded, struggling with the restraint of remaining stoic. "I'll send one of the boys to clean it," she supplied, suddenly eying the prize he clutched so desperately. Her face softened with sympathy. "I don't think it wise to take that with you," she hedged, her fingers reaching for the bottle.

Tarrant snapped. "No!" he barked, protecting his only relief with hunched shoulders and a glare of flames.

She did not take offense to him, merely acquiescing to his wishes and smiling. "Very well." That grin turned devilish. "But I _did_ warn you."

_You may say I'm a mystical mannequin;_

_Here I come with my mystical plan again._

_Although you think I can,_

_I'm just a man…_

Once the glow of the White Queen had stopped burning holes into the backs of his eyes, Tarrant continued his slow and careful route. The bend from whence Mirana and Chessur had appeared would be the best direction, as it led directly to the spiral staircase of glass and marble; parallel to this and adjacent to the hall that housed the entrance to the cellar, was a corridor that led to the grand kitchens that would probably harbor a spirited and spastic March Hare. The Cat and Queen seemed directionless, lost in conversation, but they floated towards the parlor and—several meters farther—the Royal Throne.

He made a note to visit Thackery before heading off in the direction of Her Highness; too many dark spots in his memory birthed the need to fill them, and only Mirana knew enough of horticulture to conjure up a helpful potion… and once his belly was full and his head had stilled, he may actually form the words to _ask_.

The archway exploded with light once he finally made it to the tri-pointed intersection, a window open to let in the absolutely breathtaking morning from somewhere to the left—his desired destination. With a small cry, Tarrant brought up both arms to protect himself, though the shock sent daggers through his eyes before he'd had the chance to prevent it. The angry drumming in his brows beat furiously and he wondered if he teared from the kaleidoscope that flickered about his vision… or from the pain.

"If I did not know any better, I would say that you were _drunk_, hatter!"

It did not matter how far gone he was, he would know that voice anywhere. "_Clever girl_," he groaned into the soft cascade of her honey curls, his eyes closed. Her scent of sweet tarts and rose—fresh from a bath… how _delicious_—tickled his greedy nose, which inhaled as much of the aroma as his lungs would allow; if he could bottle her delectable perfume for all of time, he would have. "Oi've been rather _sloshed_ fer…" he wobbled a bit, his hands grasping her shoulders for balance and reasons he very much wanted to investigate. His rough appendages caressed the bare flesh above the tiny puffed sleeves of her effervescent gown, a shiver of pleasure spreading beneath his skin like wildfire. "If y'dinnae notice," he finished, unable to shake the feeling that he had forgotten a portion of his statement. Inevitably, Tarrant disregarded the need for conversation and entangled an amorous finger around a particularly intriguing tendril; little diamonds had been woven into the mane of waves, sparkling like teardrops of the Lady Moon.

Her giggle was inexplicably shy. _Alice_? _The_ Alice—shy? How absolutely _adorable_. "I'm a bit warm, myself," she admitted, the rose in her cheeks alluding to something he may have imagined. "The refreshments have quite the effect," was her explanation, motioning to the fragile wineglass daintily held in her fingers, the pinky curling a bit. "I've tried it before, but it never suited me." Alice was rambling but he was disinclined to care, the heat of her neck beckoning. Her voice was breathy when she murmured, "I like _this_, however."

Did she refer to the drink in her hand or the teeth on her throat? Perhaps a bit of both? Secluded in the enchanting gardens of Mamoreal, it would not have surprised Tarrant if the latter held true. "Have Oi tol' y'how _beautiful_ y'are?" he grumbled against the wonderful curve of flesh. He devoured her little mewl, his hungry mouth covering hers with an urgency he could not contain.

"Three times a minute…" she breathed, her lips moving against his as she spoke, "since you brought me out here."

He opened his eyes. Blinked.

There was no one there. He stood alone before the Grand Staircase, befuddled.

_And I don't walk on water…_

_Oh no._

Just a vision, he surmised, annoyed and undeniably frustrated. He stole another swig from his new best friend and glowered, stomping up the hideously glittering steps with a vengeance. Of _course_ it was just a silly fancy. As if the Champion of Underland would allow a milliner—a royal one, but a milliner nonetheless—to take such liberties upon her person. Had Alice not told him of the horrors in the Aboveland, where snobbish mortals cared more for their station than for happiness? For peace? For _love_? Although undoubtedly different from those reprehensible creatures she called kin, she had regrettably lived there for over twenty-four years of her life… he could see the shadow of conceit on rare occasion. Could see the unruly bristling whenever her 'propriety' was compromised. Out of habit or reinforced teaching, she had retained the persona of those—though to a lesser degree—she so scorned.

Disappointment nagged at him. Now was not the time for useless introspection, he rationalized. His feet were getting tired, unused to walking around thus—he did not periodically strut around in his socks—and one of the opaque stockings slipped beneath the hem of his trouser leg rebelliously, falling in wrinkled bunches to his ankles. A breeze chose that moment to tease him, chilling the newly exposed flesh.

The third level housed his apartments in the East wing. Just a few more feet and he would _finally_ have the opportunity to clean himself. To sober up—or, if this headache persisted, drink more—and cloth himself appropriately; Tarrant may not be nobility, but he had a little more vanity than the average peasant to walk around so rumpled and disheveled. When he came to the door of his personal chambers, he remembered to utilize the golden doorknob and opened the wooden barrier with ease… somehow managing to stumble at the last moment and tripping on the edge of the shag-wool rug. He swore angrily, sure he had stubbed his toe.

"Bath's all ready, guv," came the lazy droll of a handmaiden, her arms steeped almost to the shoulders in the steaming tub of porcelain. Frosted layers were piled atop her head, a few strands sticking to her fine-boned face with moisture. Though human in appearance, even the intoxicated—_re_toxicated? Was that a word?—Tarrant could spot the serpent tail inconspicuously dancing underneath the simple dress of cream and ivory. Weighted upon ornate, golden lion's feet, the tiny woman barely reached over the brim of the firkin as she sat back on her haunches, her tail snaking from beneath the hem; it curled at the tip and wound into a spiral. Try as he might, he could not seem to place her… though he was fairly certain he had seen her before. Regardless, Mirana's staff was _quick_.

He attempted a thanks, barely able to rumble more than a single coherent syllable. The girl seemed nonplussed. "Sandalwood or lavender?"

Tarrant cleared his throat, frowning at her. The succubus giggled and he wondered just what made him so _blasted_ comical today. "'Scuse me?" He leaned upon his bureau, swaying.

She had the decency to check herself before speaking again. "For your bathwater, dear," she informed, shaking away the water from her mocha skin and reaching for a few little vials. "I have sandalwood, lavender, honeysuckle…" Another three vials joined the first group. "Rosemary, jasmine, rose… cedar, wild oak, morning breeze?" She held another to the sunlight streaming in through the large bay windows. Would he be taking a bath upon the balcony then? He was not aware of being an exhibitionist. "The last two are cherry blossoms and… _horse excrement_? Oh my, how did _that_ get in here?" Her golden eyes flashed with amusement.

He had the mind to scowl. "Burn it," he managed, draining the lass of his wine and smashing the bottle against the floor.

The maiden jumped a bit at the noise, startled. "Anything you find agreeable, love?"

Tarrant growled in response. "Oi _dinnae care!_"

_I don't walk on water._

Shedding the sopping mess of a shirt, he unclipped his suspenders and moved to dispose of his trousers… when he noticed that the girl had not left yet. In fact, she stood at attention, watching him avidly. Did she not understand that he did not _care_ what scent he wore, so long as it washed away the odor of memories he could not retrace? _Would not_ retrace? Daft little twit. "Anutha bottle," he commanded, pointing to the jagged mess by the doorway. "Somethin' strong." He paused. "An' sweeter." Off came the socks, followed by the ebony pants; perhaps a shock factor would get the nitwit moving. Succubae were ardent creatures, but even _she_ must know that he would broke none of that nonsense. Not with _her_.

To his surprise, she openly admired his bare, filthy physique. The blush of uncertainty rippled through him. "Aye, guv… but might you be needin' anythin' else?"

Was she implying…? Not by all the hairs on the Big Head's bulbous skull! Of course, his nether regions were very adamant in their acceptance of her very open question… but he would resist; this white-haired succubus, though a tasty morsel, paled in comparison to the bounty of another. Besides, he was not some randy buck ready to tumble in the stables with any young filly willing. Had she caught him a few hours prior, the story may have been different. "Jus' uh bottle," he mumbled, no longer looking into those sly yellow eyes. "An' none o' yer seduction."

Her laugh was musical. "That's a shame, it is. I wouldn't have minded _in the least_." She skillfully opened several of the oil vials at once, emptying their contents into the water. _Wonderful_. "M'name's Evelyn," she purred. "Send for me if you have a need."

The image of her sashaying hips would linger for a small while after her departure.

_'Whoa, down boy.'_ Tarrant eyed his rather _swollen_ extension with annoyance. Must _he_ be so uncooperative as well?

The bath seemed increasingly inviting; the steam carried the cacophony of redolence throughout his rooms and the mix was staggering. Before he could consider basking in that heaven of a tub, he thrust open the bay windows with relish… and promptly recoiled, the beautiful vista of Morning Glory basking the grounds of the White Castle sending pins-and-needles through his eyeballs. He growled and groaned and swatted at the sunlight; in his scurry, he tumbled into the bath head-first, numerous body parts flailing and banging into the hard surface.

Some time later, for the water had cooled and there were several people calling his name, he sputtered awake, splashing water all about in his surprise. "At least he hasn't drowned," came an amused giggle, drawing his immediate attention. A woman, much like the maiden Evelyn, stared at him without a shred of shame. "'Bout time you came 'round, dear." He blinked at her, his thoughts slow and unorganized. First a cellar, now in a bath. What next, mid-Futterwhacken? Oh, how _awful_ would that be? "Very nearly drowned, you did," she continued, kneeling beside the porcelain basin, "had Esmeralda not come an' checked up on you." An olive finger toyed with the ripples in his bath water, drawing suspiciously near to an organ very dear to him. How and why had he become a target for their lechery? A nagging thought tugged at the frayed hems of his memory, but he could not place these impossible women. He scooted away as best as he could in such a small space, wondering if she would attempt her charms upon his person… or if he would have to physically throw her out.

"I heard a noise most unusual," came another voice. Tarrant started, not realizing that he had an audience. He hesitantly surveyed the women—_seven?_ Oh, my—and spotted Evelyn, who grinned mercilessly. Were it not for the varying heights and state of attire, he would have sworn he were seeing double. Or was that a double of a double? Perhaps a double of a triple and then a single remainder? What a predicament. In spite of the growing headache, he noticed how that same platinum-blonde hair graced all of the hellions before him, the mocha skin and golden eyes another shared trait. Their serpentine empennages—each a disparate shade—swished and swayed freely with an infinite grace, curling and wagging. Sisters, then? Imps did not usually share their features so freely. "I came in… an' I'm glad I did," said the tallest of the seven. The one called Esmeralda, he supposed.

Tarrant frowned, too annoyed with the entire situation to muster the words to thank her. "Who're y'?" he commanded of the one that had spoken before.

She smiled a slow, sweet grin. "Edythe. But you may call me whatever you wish."

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Migh' Oi have th' rest o' yer names?" Perhaps, if he attempted civility, they would eventually disperse. Or he could kill them with kindness.

Edythe nodded. "Edelmire, Esmeralda, Eleutherya…" she motioned to each one in kind, allowing them a small, inviting wave. "Elfrida, Elgantine and you've already met our youngest, Evelyn." He looked to each one, attempting to discern which name went with which hue of tail… and failed, giving up all together. It did not matter, at any rate.

As gracefully as he could muster, he tipped an invisible hat to them. "Tarrant Hightopp," he offered unnecessarily, sure that they were well aware of his name, his position… and much more that he did not care to think of. "Would any o' you happen t' have tha' bottle Oi requested?" The ache was returning and beating louder than before. It vaguely occurred to him that he had not spoken correctly since his unfortunate awakening in the basement, but that was hardly a concern; his companions and Queen had gotten acquainted with the brogue on more than one occasion, so it should not offend anyone… and if it had, he would be thrice damned if he actually cared. "An' somethin' t' eat?"

Might as well make use of the vixens while they were there.

_I followed willingly,_

_A sweet temptation._

_She had me hypnotized_

_And still, I'm waiting…_

The handmaidens, he found out, were actually a part of Alice's troupe; her arsenal of mistresses—assigned to her by the Lady Mirana on the day of her unexpected arrival—that would cloth and fuss over her for _hours_. In total, there were ten of the sisters that lurked throughout the castle, three of them having remained as the White Queen's personal entourage. Tarrant recalled, though dimly, his dear Champion complaining about them on numerous occasions since her return from the Abovelands—how they nagged and poked and prodded at her with corsets and dresses and petticoats. How they toyed with her stockings and played with her hair ceaselessly. It had been they that painstakingly wove each of the diamonds into those beloved curls of hers; they that had forced her into that lovely gown of innumerable colors that shimmered in the moonlight, they that had practically drowned her in her bath of rose oil and petals. It was they that mothered the girl—nay, _woman_—to no end, and it was they that made sure every time she saw him, she was absolutely breathtaking.

It was these sly, serpent sisters that dangled their Champion before him like a tasty morsel in the weeks since their fair Otherworlder had spontaneously decided to rejoin them. Like a rare cup of tea that caused him to writhe and wriggle uncomfortably in his seat whenever he dared to gaze upon it… and a single sip would never do. Intoxicating, like the alcohol that so diminished his inhibitions; that robbed him of his good senses, good manners, good _everything_ and left a starved and greedy maniac in its wake. Tarrant gulped a heady dose of his vermilion downfall before he could ponder any longer on the subject.

After dodging his curtness at every turn, Tarrant had finally allowed the pesky women to do as they wished; thankfully, they had forgone their lust and had resigned to giving him a good scrub… which still felt odd, even as he stumbled towards the kitchens. To be lathered and washed as a wee bairn was _not_ something a grown man should enjoy, but once their talk had turned to the fair Alice, he had not cared about their gentle hands upon his frame… their curious fingers tickling his most private of areas. He had drawn the line at dressing him, however; he was _not_ an invalid. "If seven maids wit' seven mops," he muttered, recalling a verse. "Swept it for half a year…" He struggled for the next line and faltered, somewhat disappointed. Surely he could not be _that_ inebriated.

"Oh, is that a rhyme?" inquired the one—he thought—that was Elfrida; more round in the cheeks than the others and fairer of complexion.

He threw a glance to the side, unable to help the slight warming towards her. Anyone who enjoyed a good line or two could not be _completely_ hopeless. "Yes, actually." The hatter did his best to ignore his little crowd of attendants; tried to ignore how they cooed over him, how they took turns placing their hands in the crook of his elbow. As a gentleman, he tried his best not to insult them—succubae were notorious for their whirlwind nature—but he could not help the annoyance. He was not a man easily amused by the prospect of women and drink—though _another part_ of him would viciously disagree—and would never allow himself the title of womanizer… not that the maids seemed to care. He just hoped he could survive until he could procure another bottle.

Beside and behind him, Esmeralda was whispering to her sister, Eleutherya. He could not make out the words and did not care to ask. Those women _gossiped_ horribly. They told him of how a bedazzled, starry-eyed Alice had spun and twirled into her chambers after her celebration—'_Ah, _that_ had been the occasion; an Alice party. A party for Alice and her homecoming.' _It had been a belated affair for sure, but its grandeur had more than made up for its timing—with her lips singing of the hatter and the words that kept dissolving into giggles whenever the succubae had pestered her for answers.

That was all well and good, of course. It was _better_ than good, he amended, downing another quarter of his fourth bottle. But it did not clear the disambiguation of what little he remembered of the previous evening. Or why Alice had turned him away so forcefully—and here, Tarrant quickly derailed his devious train of thought, lest he devour the entirety of the royal cellar before nightfall. It also did not explain why the irksome nymphs had chosen to curse him with their presence… unless Lady Mirana had something to do with this. Oh-ho, he would get sweet revenge on the Queen if that were the case. Tarrant had no clue _how_, but he _would_ and that would be his only consolation at the present. "How does it go?" inquired Edythe—perhaps?—with a winsome smile, replacing Elfrida at his left. Were they switching according to predetermined shifts? They were disarmingly tactful…

"Mmm?" was his response. He turned his head a bit too quickly and the handmaidens giggled as they helped him to his feet again.

"The rhyme. How does it go?" Elgantine was shaking with mirth.

Tarrant took a moment to remember. Bits and pieces resurfaced. Without explaining—he was in no condition to think quite so extensively—he continued from whence he had begun. "_'Do you suppose,' _the Walrus said, _'that they could get it clear?'_" He squinted. "_'I doubt it,'_ said the Carpenter, and shed a bitter tear."

"A Walrus? What was his name?" asked Edythe.

So many questions. Perhaps it was not such a mystery as to why the Queen had given Alice to their care.

As if aware of his wayward musings, Lady Mirana emerged from the kitchens—his ultimate destination—with the Cheshire Cat in tow once more. She was still entirely too bright, too white. His entourage giggled again at his expense when he stumbled and nearly collided with Elfrida. "Y' Majesty," he garbled once she had taken notice of him. Whilst Edythe and Elfrida held tightly to his arms, all seven of the sisters curtsied deeply in acknowledgement of their liege.

There was a large glass jar in her dainty hands, its green goo beyond his understanding. "Tarrant," the Queen sing-songed, her voice thick with laughter. "'Tis nearly brillig. Will you not join us for tea?" Her dark eyes found the bottle in his hand again, just as she had earlier. "_That_ will not help you." She did not reach for it as she had before, but she glared at it in disdain and for a moment—a heartbreaking, terrified moment—Tarrant saw the eyes of Iracebeth, the bloody Red Queen, staring at the only remedy for his pain. Just a flicker and it was gone in an instant… but it was enough to send an unpleasant jolt of fear and anger through his nerves that suddenly shivered at the memories. That had his fingers twitching for his claymore. That made him wish he had finished his battle with Ilosovic Stayne in the most gruesome fashion imaginable.

Before he could retort, Chessur spoke, lazily rolling about over Mirana's shoulder. "Drinking yourself into a stupor, hatter?" was the off-handed question, more likely than not rhetorical in nature. The tail of the Evaporating Cat fizzled from view, wagging in and out of sight. "This is most unlike you. Unless that is _tea_ in your bottle?"

Tarrant hiccupped in reply. In truth, he had forgotten about brillig. To be reminded made him want to smash something again though, oddly enough, the comment reduced his raging ire to ashes. The sovereign gave him another odd expression, rife with understanding and—he was sure—disappointment… yet the quirking of her dark lips told another tale. Gazing upon her ethereal visage dispelled any similarities his intoxication may have drawn to her loathsome and vile sister. 'Twould be ridiculous, nigh _mad_—and he chuckled at this, much to the confusion of his companions—to draw such damning conclusions.

Chessur rose a lofty brow, but he was grinning. "I'll take that as a _no_."

The Queen smiled sweetly, glancing at the cat. "Oh, come now, Chessur; let's leave him alone. He is not the only one who shall be missing at tea today." At the hatter's knitted brow, she elaborated, her shoulders shaking a bit in amusement. "You are not the only one feeling the… _consequences_ of the celebration, Tarrant."

Finally, he found his voice. "Oh? Oi dinnae see any'un else in tha' cellar."

Mirana cackled, unable to contain herself. The annoyance returned tenfold. "Truer words were never spoken," her voice rose in hysteria, a very unlady-like snort escaping.

Tarrant took another swig… and then stopped when he realized that Mirana did _not_ have a twin. The room was _not_ supposed to be spinning—he had occupied a spinning room before and it had never left such a crude aftertaste in his mouth—and if there were actually fourteen maids instead of seven, he would crawl back to Witzend and hide under a rock for the rest of his days. "Bl'arck den tren-guh bish'un bleggle," he warbled over a mouthful of wine, unsure of what he was saying and why. He shook himself, startling the women on his arms. "Beggin' yer pardon, Highness," he hastily added, swallowing thickly as his tongue seemed eager to flail rubbish if he let it be. "G'runflack." If he continued along this manor, he would make a royal _arse_ of himself.

Too late. "I don't think that's Outlandish, Majesty," commented Chessur, clearly tickled pink at the mumbling and grumbling hatter.

The White Queen could not answer, her guffaws barely allowing her to breathe.

_My dromedary dreams_

_As wet as oceans_

_With sand dunes bearing seeds_

_She set in motion…_

Once the females—and feline—in his presence had finally tired of making a mockery of him, the Queen instructed Evelyn and Esmeralda to see to Alice's state—which, he noted, was said with a particularly strong emphasis, and he found himself fumbling at the mention of their Champion… which he knew was silly. Utterly unthinkable. He wanted to know if the young woman had awoken, if she harbored him ill will, if she had the same pounding and disorientation he had suffered through since his awakening. But there was regret and sorrow and so many shameful reason why he wished to avoid the subject of their tawny-haired mistress. When he said nothing—and oh, how he _wanted_ to ask—Lady Mirana fluttered away with a snickering Chessur and two of his escorts in her wake. The remaining sisters assisted him in recovering what was left of his dignity and guided him with gentle hands to the kitchens in search of nourishment.

Thackery, the absent-minded March Hare—and the only one who could claim a madness deeper than the hatter's—was banging away happily on a pan with a large wooden spoon, beating a rhythm that only he could understand. This carried on for several moments with Tarrant pondering if the loud, jarring melody was simply a reflection of the sadistic drumbeat taking place in his head. "Thack'ry," he blurted, halting the startling symphony before it tore his feeble grip on consciousness in two. "Stop tha' infernal racket."

The disheveled hare spun around and twitched, brandishing his wooden spoon as one would a sword. "_Pot!_"

Tarrant winced, the exclamation ringing in his ears.

"Tarrant…" came her hushed and breathless whimper, her delightful fingers entangled in his wind-tousled hair. "Tarrant, I'm not… _Tarrant_…" she was panting, her heartbeat fluttering beneath his hungry lips. He felt her pulse and nipped at the sensitive flesh, eliciting the most wonderful moan he had ever heard… but he wanted _more_. _Needed_ more; his hands, idle at her waist, dared to trek farther north, cupping the underside of her breast with infinite care. Her gasp tore a shudder from him, his fingers flexing and kneading the enticing curve through the fabric of her beautiful gown. His other appendage fell from its perch between her shoulder blades and lingered on her backside, gripping with authority. With possession.

Alice was set aflame beneath his ministrations; he could feel the charming blush climb from beneath the plunging neckline, a trail of kisses marking his territory from her mouth… her jaw… her neck… her collarbone… the soft mounds that alluded to the treasure he would find.

Tarrant could not help himself. With a guttural growl that vibrated from his throat and burning body to her shivering form, he propelled them towards a gazebo that sat cozily upon a terrace on the outer border of the Queen's royal gardens, his mouth returning to hers. Her sweet breath brushed across his cheeks every time they parted for air but he would not let her go for long; their lips would bruise on the morrow, but what did that matter? So long as Alice was _here_, with _him_… and he would have her beneath the bright and seductive gaze of the Lady Moon. He would see her skin alight with the silver glow of night, see her beg and squirm and groan with euphoria as she never had before. If another had claimed her during the many long years he had awaited her whilst she attended to her business in the unfathomable Aboveland, he would erase their mark forevermore. She would be his, and only his, if he had any say in it.

"…ike some truffles with your tea?"

Tarrant, off balanced, blinked in quick repetition. "Err," he tried—_very brightly_—to respond, unsure if this was real.

It was Evelyn, a platter of delectable treats in her hands and a smile on her lips. "Thackery instructed us to nibble on these while we wait. Would you like some truffles?" Her grin slanted, mischief clearly afoot. "I could feed them to you, if you desire."

He shook his head, absently reaching for the platter.

_You may say I'm a cynical charlatan,_

_There I go with my whimsical ways again_

_Although you think I can,_

_I'm just a man…_

Three more bottles had been thoroughly emptied before he realized how desperately he missed his top hat. His _missplaced _top hat that kept him level and anchored. _He was the hatter_. But where was his hat? The weight upon his brow that he had grown so accustomed to was painfully absent.

Not for the first time, he studied his attire dismay, remembering how the handmaidens had practically torn the ensemble in their attempt to dress him. His legs were encased in a soft, black pair of trousers—though not particularly fond of solid colors on his own frame, it was not entirely unpleasant—that, for once, were not too short on him. Had he been fully functional at the time of his robing, he was sure he would not have picked this ensemble of frigid ebony. There was no coat, no tie, no hat… not even suspenders to keep his pants high on waist… and thus, the beltline sagged on his thin hips without the support. Had he not been the very tailor to sew and manipulate the garment, he would have cursed the man vigorously. His white button-down was not a total loss, however; it contrasted his trousers well, the slight flare of the cuffs a fun addition to the otherwise very simple shirt.

Tarrant could live without the coat or tie, could live without the bright colors and the simple black shoes… but where had his hat gone to? He has asked the quiet Edelmire if she could find it for him, but the woman had merely smiled and replied, "You'll find it soon enough."

Ridiculously unhelpful, the wench. His glare had tried to dismantle the maid inch by bloody inch… to which Edelmire giggled and completely ignored the malice in his sunset eyes. Instead, he instructed her to fetch him another decanter, along with a few flagons of ale, heedless of vintage or taste. He needed _something_, and lest he commit an act he would sorely regret later, mead and wine would be a wonderful surrogate; a thorough dowsing of the ardor set aflame beneath the memories that kept cropping up.

"Y'll ruin yer appetite with drink!" was the peeved warning Thackery threw his way, but the admonition was lost on the distant Tarrant, who leaned heavily upon the marble island that housed some of the Queen's healing instruments and ingredients. He finished another tankard, letting his eyes roam over the ghosts of the previous evening; flared gowns and pristine suits, all mingling and laughing and dancing in joy. Fingers and hands, claws and paws, hooves and fins applauded the lovely Alice, whom had been completely unaware of the festivities that had been planned in secret since the eve of her reunion with the enthused creatures of Underland. He watched, in his mind's eye, her slowly descend the Grand Staircase with shock and awe—and a tinge of apprehension, he was sure—her beauty and radiance unlike any other he had ever had the pleasure of laying his sight upon. Even the Queen, perfection that she was, could not compare to the breathtaking wonder that was his Alice. _His_ Alice. Not _the_ Alice—_his_.

He remembered how her hair had sparkled in the light of the chandelier, how her flushed cheeks seemed entirely too adorable for a woman of five and twenty years. He remembered sharing the first dance of the evening with her… and almost every other one after, separating only when the tipsy Mallymkun had insisted he teach her the Futterwhacken right then and there—regardless of his protests, as a Futterwhacken could not be forced. Thackery had joined, hopping and bouncing in wild abandon, and the three had made fabulous fools of themselves in an odd triangle of song and missteps.

He remembered Alice, full of joy and laughter, applauding the trio in earnest once the orchestra had ceased their lively tune.

Afterwards, he and the Champion had wandered off to the gardens, discussing many and varying subjects; how she was enjoying herself, if she planned on returning to her world—which had not been a good idea, in retrospect, but his desperation had forced the inquiry from his loose tongue after weeks of wondering—and when that would be… if she enjoyed the food and drink, the music and guests… if she had ever figured out why a raven is like a writing desk.

Tarrant grasped the second pint and chugged it with a vengeance; now that the images were becoming easier to piece together, he just wanted to forget them again.

The third flask had disappeared in a similar fashion. He suspected the maids were a little put off with all of his sulking and drinking, for after their delivery of his requested glass canteens they retreated to help the March Hare with his preparations and last-minute touches before finally vacating the kitchens all together. So, it was to be tea and a feast? His stomach did not mind that brilliant line of thought at all—Thackery had been wrong in assuming that his appetite would be spoiled. Spirits lifted ever so slightly, Tarrant grasped the first in a line of bottles he was determined to consume before the table was properly set. He never took notice of the numerous place mats already laid about the table—the rolled silverware, the empty goblets—and so, after savoring the last drops of the third ewer, he was startled when the large double doors opened—seemingly—of their own accord.

Tweedledee and Tweedledum came lumbering in first, both rubbing their large bald heads in unison. They were still dressed in what appeared to be their sleepwear, their feet bare. "Oy," they called out simultaneously once they spied him, wincing at the brightness of the room… in too much pain to offer him a proper greeting. Which was fine, since he felt entirely too incapacitated to offer one in return.

Nivens came wobbling in behind them, the usually jittery and impeccably-dressed rabbit oddly calm in his white bathrobe. His balance was clearly askew but his red eyes remained on the ground before him, as if judging every step with infinite care; next was the Dormouse, who groaned and moaned her discomfort in unabashed sorrow, her stance mimicking the Tweedles in every aspect. Mallymkun barely registered his presence, which spoke volumes of her state—usually, she was the first to notice him and joyously proclaim her happiness at his existence. Today was _not_ the day for joviality, it seemed… even her tail trailed listlessly on the ground beneath her own robe of red and gold.

Bayard, Bielle and their pups came bounding in around the little group. Dogs, Tarrant recalled, could not properly digest alcohol. How very fortunate for _them_.

Thackery came hopping by, a very large, covered tray threatening to topple the poor hare over at any second. The hatter did his best to hide his drunken stagger and assisted the furry chef, somehow placing the platter gently in the center of the dining table _without_ falling over himself. From beneath the lid, he could smell the sweet and succulent aroma of peacock, roasted and marinated with herbs, spices and a sauce strongly mixed with honey. Curious, he unveiled the masterpiece and had to keep the drool from spilling out of his mouth; surrounded by a hollowed Anaconda—which had been filled with butter-grilled vegetables, such as squash and zucchini—the peacock was bronzed to perfection, stuffed with cloves of garlic and mounds baked potato. Asparagus decorated the tray around the bird, cherries garnishing the entirety as a stunning finale_. _

It took him a moment to collect himself. His ravenous belly wanted to dive teeth-first into the wonderful confection, single-mindedly transfixed upon the meal he could consume _by himself_ had the circumstances allowed for it. He had not had this dish since his early years as an apprentice in Witzend… though he could not recall its significance. How very odd and arbitrary of the hare to choose a ceremonial—_which ceremony?_—dish for their dinner. Thackery thanked him—punctuating the sentiment by bellowing "_Th' tray!_" at the top of his lungs—and bounded off to fetch a series of several large bowls. Tarrant followed, more to occupy himself than anything else, after placing his bottle by the arrangement.

For Alice, followed by the disturbingly high-spirited Queen and Chessire Cat, had just padded into the room.

Her back had arched into his touch, her posterior anchored atop the glass table within their white-veiled gazebo. Far from prying eyes, he worshipped her the only way he knew how, lifting her voluminous skirts and running his calloused hands over and over her legs; her stockings barred him access and he viciously ripped them off, loving the giddy giggle that bubbled in her slender throat. Mad with desire—what a pleasant change from the norm—he nuzzled and nipped at her ear, his palms memorizing the feel of her shins… her knees… her thighs… her waist. All of them parted for him—_just for him_—and he greedily stalked closer, pulling her lithe body against his own. "_Tarrant,_" she murmured, and he suddenly loved the sound of his name.

_And I don't walk on water…_

_Oh, no._

The heat of the bowl seared his bare hands, the shock uncloaking his eyes for a crystal-clear moment in time.

He swore loudly in his native tongue, nearly dropping the curved plate of seasoned wild rice. The hatter bared his teeth at the enchanting grain, steeling himself. The burn would fade with time as long as he got the blasted thing to the table quick enough… which was not an easy feat, as his legs were unsteady from the atrocious amount of liquid degradation he had consumed. His vision blurred and sizzled for an uneasy second before he forced his wavering stride towards the sitting occupants and guests, who finally took notice of his struggle.

"'Atta!" cried Mallymkun, who grimaced at the sound of her own voice. He dared not let his eyes wander from his hot and steamy charge. Quietly, she continued. "Are y'alrigh'?"

He could not answer over the lump in his gullet. Too many eyes, he felt, were on him; _her_ eyes were on him. The bowl collided loudly amidst the buffet, his raw and reddening hands relieved of the damning heat. He took a moment to blow upon his abused flesh before again following after Thackery who, _again_, bore a burden much too large for his little stature. Tarrant relieved him of the tray of condiments—gravy, butter, sauce and a few rolls baked with honey—and placed that by the ever growing feast before his companions. Several more trips went by in this vein—Thackery grabbing something he could barely lift and Tarrant taking it from his grateful grasp, including a delicate tea service—before the hare and hatter finally took a seat before the scrumptious meal, Thackery sitting betwixt Mallymkun and Alice, Tarrant securing a place by the Queen and the sly Chessur.

"Oh my!" was Mirana's excited praise. "This looks _divine_, Thackery! You've outdone yourself, surely!"

The hare twittered and sputtered in embarrassment, pulling on an ear. "'Tis a recipe from me youth, Majesty," he managed, ducking beneath the table.

For some reason, this brought the dark eyes of their monarch upon Tarrant, who was quickly becoming frustrated with the attention. "Witzend?" inquired the Queen.

"_Aye!_" came the confirmation, two large eyes peering over the vacated seat. "_Hands!_" he cried, as if that explained _everything_.

Reaching for the half-consumed bottle he had abandoned, Tarrant stole a moment to survey the dining table. Chessur, to his right, ironically sat beside the bundle of bloodhound pups, all of them wagging their tails eagerly in their seats; their parents sat with much of the same enthusiasm, though they tried their best to contain themselves. A few empty chairs filled the gap before completing a corner, where Alice sat with her eyes downcast, seemingly examining the fine tablecloth.

Thackery was still eying the Queen with uncertainty.

Mallymkun gave him a hard, questioning gaze and he quickly averted his eyes, glancing over the Tweedles and the White Rabbit before coming full circle—_rectangle_, technically—to settle on the brilliant White Queen to his left, who was already helping herself to the delicious bounty before her.

His eyes found their way back to Alice… which was not unusual. He always tried to keep her in his sights, possessive cad that he was. A vicious stabbing was taking place in the vicinity of his chest, but he could not prevent it; she was lovely, even freshly awoken. Wild milk-and-honey hair fell about her shoulders and down her back in sporatic waves, her cheeks kissed with a tint of pink. Her silken robe shimmered a thousand shades of blue, unfastened to show what could be considered—in Upland's standards, she had told him—an indecent amount of skin. The lacey nightgown of the same cornflower-blue revealed her collarbone, her shapely neck—were those… _bruises?_ A trail of tiny pink-and-purples that, had he not been so observant of her person, he would have never noticed—and fell in a sultry waterfall to her knees, her shapely legs, ankles and heels a tantalizing tease above her matching fuzzy slippers.

He imagined how lovely her sleep-scented hollows would taste… and promptly chided himself for such thoughts.

"Would you allow me to look at your hands, Tarrant?" asked Mirana around a mouthful of peacock, a dainty hand hiding her delighted mouth as an afterthought. Tarrant finally grasped the cool bottle in his hands, pulling the coveted refreshment eagerly to him. He _had_ to stop staring.

"Nay," he gruffly replied, downing the rest of the green container.

Chessur narrowed his eyes, which the hatter happily ignored. "Still, Tarrant?"

"Don' bother me, _Cat_," Tarrant growled, wishing he had not placed the rest of his stash on the island so many feet away. "Oi'm not in th' _mood_ t' deal wit' yer _shukrn_."

"Now, now," came the calm Chessur, disdain dripping from every syllable. "That language is unnecessary. What has you in such a foul mood?"

Tarrant winced, reaching for the wooden spoon of the rice bowl. What _did _have him so uncharitable? Was it the memory of his fumbling fingers searching for the tiny buttons that would separate his desperate eyes from the barrier that kept him from thoroughly devouring every inch of Alice's skin? Was it the shudder of cold wind and the pressure of her shoving him away with nary a thought, putting a good foot of distance between them? Was it the sudden, jolting shock of pain that stung when Alice's palm collided smartly with his cheek?

Or was it the bone-jarring reality of rejection? The disgusting dread that filled his throat with bile? The knowledge that, no, she did _not_ want him after all? That he had spent _so long_ waiting for her, had tried so hard to ignore the ache of her absence whilst he lost himself in his trade… day after day, pouring his entire being into every hat, every stitch until, miraculously, she had breathlessly walked into his life again. Even then, he had restrained himself from descending upon her with ravenous kisses and declarations his scattered mind kept screaming with the ardor of a man lost and desperate for reprieve. Alice had come to him many times after her arrival, watching him work, sipping tea with him, strolling in the gardens with him, talking with him and sharing stories of her adventures in the Otherworld on her veranda before she retired for the night… every time, he forced himself to _be a gentleman_, for that was what Alice expected—what _her world_ expected and, thus, her.

Tarrant had believed she may have held a special place in her heart for him. Her sweet blushes and twinkling eyes, her hushed tones and smiles that she reserved for only him… even her succubae servants had attested to the fantasy he eagerly wished to be reality. Like a fool, he believed the Champion of Underland could care—_had _cared—for him in a manner other than a friend. Confidant… _lover_. Candied dreams of starting a family, of filling the gaping hole in his soul that had slowly eaten away at his sanity since the grave and dismal Horunvendish Day. After weeks of subtle courting—for, by every definition bar the blatant step into physical intimacy, that was the fine line they flirted upon—he thought it may have been the right time to finally tell her. To _show _her.

But he had forgotten his stubborn and amorous nature. Had forgotten how single-minded he could be if the situation called for it—and it had, _oh_, it had. He was pushy and demanding, greedy and primal. He could have _attended_ to her for _hours_ if she had simply let him; had been bursting with the desire to do just that. He would have eagerly searched for every touch that made her shiver and shudder, found every nook and hollow that would bring forth those delicious little whimpers. Have her squirming beneath, beside, before and every way possible around him. If she had given him the chance… but she had. And instead of gently arousing her to the point of incoherence, he had thrown her over a cliff without so much as a by-your-leave and had expected the inexperienced young woman to understand—_to accept_—the needy advances and desires of a grown man.

It was no wonder she had so thoroughly denied him… but it still hurt. It hurt _terribly_.

His fairytale of a happy ending. A man that would love her and cherish her every second until their dying day—and unto the Great Beyond. His starry-eyed promise of a bright and golden future… all of them gone with a single breath—a simple shove and hasty smack to his pride.

So… what had him in such a foul mood? Yes, what indeed.

"Oi woke up," he grumbled, missing the surprised and shattered glance Alice threw in his direction.

_I don't walk on water._

A collective sigh arose from himself and those around him; even Mirana rubbed at her belly with a smile.

The meal was every bit as delicious as he had suspected it to be. The explosion of flavor, the zesty and succulent poultry, the fluffy rice, the rich and exotic taste of snake and vegetables… absolutely heaven. For a brief moment, Tarrant considered marrying the jumpy hare and allowed himself a small smile. _'The way to a man's heart…'_

A thought struck him. A _memory_. A heart-framed portrait he had kept in the back of his mind since he was left to scatter the ashes of his loved ones so long ago. The smile died on his lips as his waking eyes watched a crowd of bubbly redheads sing and chant in his mother brogue, all merry and joyous and celebrating _vigorously_. Bright colors flooded the large hall—someone's cottage… familiar, but not his own—in an enchanting rainbow, children running through the forest of bell-skirts and mismatched trousers in play. There were streamers and ribbons and so many different arrangements of flowers, it would put the Queen's gardens to shame; garlands and wreaths and daisy-chains aplenty. Some people threw tiny blooms into the air like confetti, whooping and cheering ceaselessly.

At the forefront stood a man and a woman he did not know—perhaps some distant relative, perhaps a mere acquaintance—their hands clasped together tightly as another wrapped and bound them together. A few words were spoken. More laughter and joy, more mead and ale, more crying—happy tears, one could assume—and a million different voices rising together to honor this cherished occasion. This wonderful, beloved union.

"A _hand-fastening_," he murmured, unaware that he had spoken aloud. _Hands!_ had been Thackery's outburst. Perhaps he should pay a bit more attention to his old friend.

Chessur gave him a glance pregnant with meaning. A meaning he did not comprehend. "Oh? When?"

Tarrant looked up sharply, the blur that was once a cat doubling and flickering. Gray, green and blue warped in a vortex of irregular shapes. Was that Chessur Evaporating, or what that his own failing eyes? "Nnn," he tried, swallowing with some degree of trouble. "Thack'ry's rec… rec…" he hiccupped, suddenly embarrassed at his inability to speak—let alone speak _eloquently_. "'S fer han'…" This was damnably annoying. Let them figure it out on their own, he had other things to do.

For instance, he needed to grab one of the lovely decanters that practically screamed his name. Never one to disobey a lady, he happily obliged, dimly aware that he was losing it—completely and utterly losing it. Someone was saying something—when _were they not_?—and Tarrant was sure that another, sharper remark had been aimed at him. But why? Could they not just enjoy their meal and tea and leave him be? Ha! A rhyme! He still had it, after all! The hatter stumbled from his chair in his urgency to retrieve his lonely maiden, their cool green bodies inviting, the sweet ambrosia within irresistible. When he tripped over _nothing_, he caught himself on the edge of a stool and chuckled. "'_Th' time has come,'_" he bellowed, snorting as the lines spilled freely from his lips. "Th' Walrus said, _'to talk of many things_; _o' shoes an' ships an' sealing wax… o' cabbages an' kings. An' why th' sea is boilin' hot… an' whether pigs have wings…'._" Oh, he could rhyme for _days_.

He had no trouble with _these_ words. Eagerly, he seized the chance and recited as much of it as he could remember. His swagger slanted towards the door and he eagerly followed, trying to make it through the large archway that seemed to wriggle away every time he stepped towards it. "What a merrily malicious malady," he tried, glaring. The infernal door did not stop moving and he blamed it for his wayward words. He tried another letter. "Frumious, foul, frightful, fallacious, faulty," he growled at the shuddering white oak. "Fair, fascinating, fine, fallow, failure—" Tarrant had the distinct impression his mouth no longer spoke of the door. "Forlorn…" His knees gave out. "Fatigue…" Dark corners became a pinprick of light. "Faint…" And that, too, then faded.

"Tarrant?" came a small, very familiar voice. But it was far too late to reach him.

_Kaleidoscopal eyes as you look in the mirror…_

_The long is getting shorter as the far is now nearer._

When he came to, his fingers twitched, cold in spite of the wildfire simmering in his torso.

"I think he's awake," someone observed. It was Alice, her breath tickling the small hairs at his brow. Her voice sent a sharp shiver up his spine and his eyes forced themselves open, hungry for the sight of her. Her wide eyes were swimming before him, the image splitting, blurring and then melding into the beautiful canvas of her face. A soft curl tickled his nose. "Hatter?"

Hatter? Tarrant was more than sure that they had gotten beyond the title. That she had become accustomed to his given name. Perhaps he had caused more damage than initially assumed… unless it had been a dream. He was not sure if that placated him. "Alice," he lisped, somewhat confused at the sound of his whisper. His throat ached, his head ached… he would have to ask Lady Mirana for some kind of salve for this. "Is…" he gulped, trying to restore some of the moisture his insides cried for. It pained him greatly and he frowned, as he never recalled this simple act eliciting such a response before. "Where is the Queen?" was the pitiful, coarse inquiry.

"She's making something for you," she answered, relief and irritation hardening her words. "Do you remember anything?"

So… not a dream? Surely Alice would not speak in that manner had he not done anything to warrant such. He found himself hesitant to reply. "More than I care to, I fear." Tarrant grimaced, trying to push himself up. A dozen joints cracked and protested the sudden movement, begging for rest. "Where am I?" he ventured, glancing about for his hat… to no avail. He did, however, take note of the seven handmaidens that shadowed Alice, all with varying degrees of worry—and annoyance?—darkening their angular features. Evelyn, he was pleased to observe, seemed thoroughly displeased with him… which was a relief. It was much easier handling an unhappy woman—_succubus_, he amended—than a pushy, seductive, overbearing-mother-hen. He mulled that over for a moment before he realized that 'seductive' and 'mother-hen' did not suit well together. And if they did, would that not be incest? He felt a bit queasy at the notion.

His reply must not have been one Alice anticipated; her frown turned furious, sitting back on the bed. He missed her nearness. She ignored his question altogether. "That's entirely _your_ fault, I'm afraid. What on earth were you _thinking_?" she admonished, her tone dark. She did not let him answer her question—perhaps it was rhetorical?—which, in his opinion, was quite rude. "Now you've gone and given yourself alcohol poisoning. I do hope you're pleased with yourself."

Tarrant was taken aback by her rancor. "Pardon?" he stalled, trying to reign in his temper. Of all people, he did not want to lose control before the Alice. Last night would attest to the consequences of such silly inhibitions. "'Twas not my intention of poisoning myself or any other person. Why I would be pleased at such a thing, I would not know—and it's rather discourteous of you to assume that I _would_ be pleased at having done so. Peeved, perhaps. But pleased? That's preposterous, Alice, and I'll have you know that pointedly accusing me of being pleased at this preposterous notion—for it is _preposterous_, Alice—is in poor taste." There: strong, yet polite. He hoped she would simply drop the subject, for he feared his tongue may not behave; fatigue and apprehension—with a heavy dose of Throbbing Headache… which seemed to be a permanent state of being as of late—were not the best of conversationalists.

No such luck. "_Poor taste?_" she parroted, her brows flirting with her hairline. That empirical tone foreshadowed many Bad Things to come, he was sure.

"Stop it, you two," demanded Mallymkun, whom he had not realized was there. Wrenching his attention away from an Alice-waiting-to-explode, he found Mallymkun standing to her full height, indignant, beside a twittering Thackery, who kept wringing his poor ears. Without thought, he gently seperated the long ears from Thackery's stressed fingers, straightening the furry appendages; his dear friend would ruin himself if left unchecked. "All tha' mattas is tha' the 'atta is alrigh'," she pointedly told Alice, who, surprisingly, did not argue.

"You've made a rhyme," Tarrant praised, smiling. Mallymkun softened a bit, her glare dissolving. What wonderful companions he had.

"Malleh," came Thackery who, for one shining moment, was perfectly coherent. What a rare and wonderful surprise! Though, as those near and dear to him had come to realize, the hare's lucidity was not lost, but hidden beneath the madness; anyone who took the time to decipher his odd and often ill-timed outbursts would find the truth. Thackery's eyes stared at Tarrant for a moment longer before turning to the Dormouse. "We best be off."

Mallymkun scrunched up her nose. "Wha' for? The Queen will be back any minute an' Dee-Dum with 'er! Why should _we_—"

"_Go!_" yelped the hare, throwing a small thimble at her. The hatter frowned—why his thimbles? What had they ever done? "Nae, ya blin' saddlebag! _Go fetch yer tea!_"

"We've already 'ad—_och!_ Thack—_ow!_" Mallymkun tottered a few steps, rubbing her cheek.

But Thackery did not stop with Mallymkun; he tossed a large pawful of needles and thimbles and—oh my, he would hurt someone in this vain—ribbons he must have confiscated from the hatter's shop, all of them directed at the horrified maids. "All o' ye—_out!_ _Fetch me a fork! Give me a pie! Get out, ye frumious eye-pokers!_" More projectiles were launched, the hare bounding after their sputtering and retreating forms. The succubae and Dormouse glared and flung harsh words at him, confused and irritated at the small creature that so adamantly chased them from the chamber. "_I'll no' 'ave ye ruinin' mae brillig an' tooth! Out wit' ye!_"

When the door slammed shut behind the outraged troupe, he heard a tiny giggle from the enchanting woman beside him. Her eyes were shining with mirth. "Subtle, isn't he?" An unconventional snort escaped her and she covered her mouth, having forgotten herself.

Tarrant occupied himself with counting the tiny threads of the blanket that covered the lower portion of his body, wishing she would forget herself more often. Herself, but never _them_. "He gets his point across," he contributed, earning another chortle. "I will have an awful time trying to find everything he threw. I fear I will have to delay my duties to the Crown until my shop is in order. Do you think there's such a thing as 'Ribbon Leave'?" Alice was turning red. "'Needle of Absence'?" Now blue. How fascinating. "'Thimble Vacation'?" He was sure she may have turned purple by now, but she had buried her face in her hands, hiccupping. He could not help a wry grin. "Breathing is highly recommended, Alice."

Her eyes were overflowing, but not fromc sadness. When she had gotten a hold on her laughter, her curved lips parted to reveal straight, perfect teeth, her dimples pronounced. Idly, he desired her to smile more—to unwind this air of restriction the Otherworld had so thoroughly imprinted upon her. For all of her imagination and courage, she let such trivialities impede her happiness. "You should request for a Grievance Leave!" Her giggles brought a bubbly warmth to his chest.

He watched her, even shared a few chuckles, until she had settled down again. Little by little, he watched the tension grow. Watched her start to fidget with uncertainty. Watched her remember her ire and frown, all of the easy companionship gained in Thackery's wake completely wasted by the reality of their damnable situation. "What _were_ you thinking?" she finally asked, staring at the wall behind him. Tarrant realized that there was something worse than being disliked for unscrupulous behavior; being _invisible._ "I've never seen you act this way before. What's going on, hatter?" She finally turned to him, but he had taken up thread-counting again.

"My name's Tarrant, dear," he whispered, counting fifty-three threads in the fabric before he remembered reciting that same number several times in his head. He would have to start anew. "I trust you have not forgotten it."

_Are you just a mirror standing in front of me?_

_Am I blind?_

_Can my eyes really see…?_

"Are you still drunk?" she challenged.

"A little," he admitted. "Though hardly incapacitated." He decided to lie back, reaching behind him to fluff the pillows… only to have her hands bat his away gently, fixing them for him. He thought to protest. "I'm not a nonagenian," he quipped, though he was not certain; with Time holding such a hardy grudge against him, he did not know how long he had slept, frozen at the eternal tea party. Time may very well choose to ignore him forever, leaving him a man with no age, no home and no foreseeable future. Not the least, a watch with hands that never turned. "Thank you," he managed at last, settling himself comfortably at her urging. He sighed, closing his eyes.

"You caught me unawares, Tarrant."

His eyelids flew open. "Pardon?"

She would not look at him. "Last night, I… did not expect it… and I was not ready for it. _That_." Her fingers were drawing pictures on the mattress and he very much wanted to know what they were. "When we…" Her blush was lovely. "I never told you why I came back, did I?"

"No," he answered, though it was pointless to do so to her question that was not.

Alice nodded. She seemed to gather herself before she continued. "When I left, I wanted to finish what my father started," she began. Ah, so this was to be a tale. He _did_ enjoy a good story, and an Alice story was the highest caliber of good. "He always dreamed of charting new trade routes to distant lands… and I wanted to make him proud." Her smile was back. He was glad to see it. Tarrant made a note to inquire about her father—this man that so strongly influenced this unbelievable woman. "Absolem was with me, most of the time; he helped me remember. By the time I returned to England—my home in the Upland—I was almost ready to come back…" Here, her mouth ironed out. "But my mother wanted a family. My new _fiancée_," she spat, "wanted a young wife. He tried to… _initiate_ marital relations the night after my ship docked."

This was _not_ a good story. He bared his teeth, his mood feral. "Oi'll rip out his eyes for daring to look at yae," he swore. "He'll rue th' day he was born."

A hand caressed his cheek, the soft skin drawing him out of his anger before it could consume him. "'Twas not the first time a man has tried to take liberties with my person," she said, and the hatred for this nameless, faceless man turned inward. _He_ had done much of the same. She must have picked up on this errant thought—perceptive little bee—for she hastily added, "Not you, silly man. On my travels, I've met many kinds of people. With the sweet, come the sour."

Tarrant wondered when she had become so wise. "There is no excuse for what—"

"I was not finished," she interrupted with a smile. "And I made sure he thought twice before underestimating a woman again, I promise you." Alice made to remove her hand, but he maneuvered his fingers between hers, catching them in his lap. "But my point… is that when I pushed you away, I was not pushing _you_ away." She bit her lip most becomingly. "I w-would…" Oh my, was that a stammer? From Alice? _The_ Alice? "I would not have stopped you, otherwise."

His heart froze. Then roared to life with a voraciousness that stunned him. His eyes widened and longed for hers, glad that she did not shy away from his searching gaze. Did she mean it? Truly? And did he deserve as much? He recalled his hands, roaming over every inch of her in their hungry desperation. His lips, harsh and needy against hers. His teeth that sought to bite and devour her flesh—to consume her so that they could be one instead of two. So that he would never again remember what it felt like to not have an Alice in his life. Tarrant had never expected her to forgive him, let alone confess that she… did she desire him as well? What else could he ascertain? He was of a mind to ask her to repeat that last bit, but feared that he had heard incorrectly. Misinterpreted something.

He reached for her, tangling his fingers into her hair. Alice did not complain. So he brought her inviting mouth to his own, encouraged further by her little moan.

They embraced, Tarrant pulling her delicious frame against his until they were both kneeling atop the mattress, lost to the world. Alice quickly overcompensated for all of the times she called him by his trade, gasping and breathing his name in that choppy, wonderful way of hers. Careful to leave the thin straps of her nightgown untouched, he gently slid her silken robe from her shoulders, basking in the sensation of her bared flesh—completely open to his whimsy. He kissed every inch of her he could reach, following the trail his fingers left; a flush of rose crept over her and he watched it with fascination. Watched her breasts tighten in response. Watched her eyes darken with ardor. He wanted to carve his name into her skin—to carve _her_ name into _his_. Wanted to strip her bare, down to her bones, until there was nothing of her he had not seen. Nothing to hide.

She clutched at his shirt, tearing a button or two in her fervor, mimicking his frenzy. At the blatant opportunity, she ran her gentle palms up and down his chest, exploring with as much attention as he bestowed upon her. They shared another mesmerizing clashing of lips, neither willing to let the other one go.

It escalated quickly. Much too quickly, perhaps, for when next he retreated for air, she was beneath him on the pillows, his aches and pains and Throbbing Head completely forgotten in the delight of her. _Her_. His one and only _Her_. He paused only to grin and stole more of her, tasting the sweet bounty of her swollen mouth. Dancing with her inquisitive tongue. Swallowing every mewl like his final meal. When he dared to give her room, she arched into him stubbornly, protesting. He chuckled into her neck, retracing the steps his teeth had taken the prior eve. Perhaps he would leave more marks, though he hated to impose flaws upon her beauty so… not that she minded. Her eyes closed in rapture.

Alice might have let him take her right there and then, in this bed—speaking of which, _what room_ was he in?—had the Queen not chosen that moment to knock on the door.

_You may say I'm a miracle mannequin_

_Here I come with my mystical plan again_

_Although you think I can_

_I'm just a man…_

Though he growled something unintelligible into her addictive mouth—along the lines of, "_Let her wait,"_—Alice giggled and righted her skewed robe, instructing him to have some patience. That she would send a maid with a missive tomorrow and to please get some rest, for she did so worry when he was not himself.

He did not want her to go. He was honest enough to admit that he wanted to bar the doors with the bureaus and simply lose himself in the promise of her. To lock the windows and curtain them with material black as pitch so that they could pretend the next millennia held the illusion of eternal nightfall. So that they may enjoy pleasures that amplified before the pull of the Lady Moon. But Alice—his wonderfully brilliant and infernally _logical_ Alice—knew better and placated him with another heated kiss before bidding him good night. The subtle sway of her hips was another prize he could chew on as he resigned himself to Patience, watching her backside move through the thin layer of her nightwear. When she opened the door, she graciously allowed the Queen entry before scurrying away, obviously in a hurry.

The Queen floated in with a tell-tale smile on her dark lips, Chessur thankfully absent from her side for the first time that day. "I was beginning to wonder."

Irritable, he harrumphed. "And what would that be, Majesty?"

Mirana lightly sat beside him, a small glass cup in her flittering grasp. The green goo he had spied earlier made its second debut. "You forget how doting my trees can be, Tarrant. They miss nothing and withhold even less."

That unsettled him greatly. "Mirana…" he groaned, covering his face with his hands. "You _knew_?"

Her laugh was an apologetic one—if laughter had ever been considered as such—and nothing like the cackles he had been subjected to before. "We've been friends for so long, my dear hatter. I'm surprised that you thought _anything_ could be kept secret. Least of all from _me_." Her dark eyes were bright. "What kind of Queen do you take me for?"

Tarrant made a personal vow to find the tree responsible for the treachery and promptly _chop it down_. Axe the gossipy wood until it was naught but mulch. That everyone at their brillig knew—oh, _botheration_—about his horrid display of barbarism made him slightly faint. He would _never_ live this down. Even if he lived for a hundred years. Even if he lived past the funerals of his aged companions, the reign of his White Queen and the end of Underland Herself, he would _never live this down_. With Alice, the situation was different, but he did not care to have his personal affairs thrown about on a whimsy. "What is that?" he asked of the tonic she held, needing a change of topic.

Thankfully, she consented to the switch, though that damnable smirk did not leave. "It will help you with the aftereffects of celebrating so thoroughly."

"The ingredients?" he dared, remembering her Buttered Fingers with a slight quiver of distaste. In their younger years, when the White Queen had been the White Princess and Underland did not have so many scars, he had watched her toil away at her Potions, trying to remember the right combination for the right ailment. He remembered so many of them going awry. Remembered so many of them going awry on _him_.

She raised a regal brow. "You know better than to ask, Tarrant. Hold your nose and drink."

He sighed, accepting the chilled cup. "As you command, my liege." He glared at the thick, green slime.

"Rest," she instructed, already standing. A moment passed. And then another. She leveled him with a contemplative look, searching for something he could not catch. "We have been through much together," she said finally. Her face was full of memories, her voice soft and serious. "And now, it is time we make our tomorrows as wonderful as we can; I know I cannot heal the scars you bear, and how I wish I could… but I would see to your happiness above all else." Sincerity rang from every syllable, humbling him. He never could have imagined he would mean _anything_ to her. Yes, they were friends, but… he was at a loss for words. "Nothing I can ever do will rectify the wrongs done against you… the last of the Hightopps… but if it takes my dying breath, I will try. So, my old and fondest friend, honor me and take my advice."

He grumbled, secretly touched. "Which is?"

"Don't _botch it_ this time." And she swept from the room, the Chessire Cat appearing for a moment with his coy smile before he, too, disappeared.

_And I don't walk on water…_

_Oh, no._

True to her word, the morning brought Edythe with the largest smile he had seen thus far. "How did you sleep?" she inquired.

"Well," he replied truthfully. Tarrant knew the Queen to be a master healer, but with his experiences, he was always amazed when one of her concoctions did what she promised. Mirana's kind words still clung to him, tightening his chest. What wonderful and loyal friends he had; Thackery, with his mad intervention, Mallymkun with her own brand of concern, his Queen, whom he would—and almost _did_—die for… Alice… lovely, beautiful, forgiving Alice. He yawned and stretched, enjoying the sweet pain of his knots unwinding and joints cracking. Today could hold nothing but perfection. "Surprisingly well, thank you," he said, his mood bright and gracious. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, dear lady?"

A blush darkened the lovely color of her skin. "Now _that's_ the hatter we all know and love." She giggled. "I bring a missive." A wink. "From _Alice_."

_I don't walk on water._

"Did you give it to him?" was the urgent whisper of the eldest, Elizabeth.

Edythe nodded, sharing her sister's giddiness. "He was so delightful! Oh, you should have seen him yesterday—absolutely _gorgeous_, but so surly." Edythe laughed when the second youngest (to Evelyn), Esmé, squealed. "I'm afraid we've lost him," she sighed.

Elizabeth grinned, revealing fangs normally concealed. "We will once he sees the Champion with his hat on. She's just like the Queen."

Edythe tilted her head, curious. "Oh?"

"She told me her plan," the eldest explained. "Alice is to seduce him by their gazebo—and if he does not follow through, she's going to intoxicate him!"

"I can't believe she told you that!" They shared a few chortles of amusement before Edythe moved closer to her siblings, her tail curling with anticipation. "But you absolutely _must_ tell me what the Queen's been up to; we've been so busy with Alice and the hatter, we've missed all of the gossip! I _know_ she had a hand in this."

Edna, the prettiest, rolled her eyes. "And _you_ must tell _us_ what happened! Did you truly get to bathe him?"

Edythe laughed again, linking her arms with Elizabeth and Edna, Esmé entirely too fanatical to stand still. "You will _die _of envy, love, when I tell you. Evelyn tells me he just stripped bare in front of her, so she was the lucky one—we must hound her for details as soon as she's finished with Alice—but Esmeralda found him unconscious in the bath…" As one, the four trotted down the fine corridor, their heads bowed together, their giggles echoing off of the walls that always kept an ear open for news; everyone knew that if you wanted to know everything, all one had to do was ask a maid. The maids were the eyes and ears of the world. The only ones with access to unlimited knowledge.

And forever shall it be.

_My dromedary dreams_

_As wet as oceans…_

_With sand dunes bearing seeds,_

_She set in motion…_

_My dromedary dreams._

**END**

**SONG: **"Walk on Water," by Ozzy Osbourne

**CHALLENGE: **Drunk!Tarrant

**TITLE: **A reference from Lewis Carroll's "The Walrus and the Carpenter".

**CREDIT: **wanderamaranth for her repeated spellchecking, grammar-checking and the wealth of ideas her opinions gave me. I could not have done this without her. Thank you!


End file.
